When I pull into my driveway, I grab my belongings in a hurry, knowing that my dog, Lola, is barking her head off, losing her mind, waiting for me. Except she’s not.
I was her favorite person, her main person. When she came home to us, prancing out of her travel crate like she owned us already, she was just a fluffy puppy, only eight weeks old. I worked from home and she was my constant companion. She slept at the side of my bed. She sprawled in the kitchen while I cooked dinner. She laid under my desk while I worked. She nosed her face under my elbow while I tried to type.
In March, she started limping. It wasn’t unusual for her to limp on occasion. She’d sometimes limp after a long walk or for no reason at all. The vet told me she had arthritis. So I didn’t think too much of it. She was seven years old, an old lady in dog years.
But she didn’t improve. A month later, she had a lump on her wrist. It doubled in size over the course of a weekend, so I took her to the vet on Monday, April 8. After a round of x-rays, the vet told me that Lola had osteosarcoma. Cancer.
“How long?” I asked.
Maybe a week. Maybe six weeks. Probably not more than six weeks. The vet gave me pain medications, two kinds. Our goal was to keep her comfortable.
The first week, my husband said, “I think she’s going to make it longer than six weeks! She’s doing so well!” and it was true. She leaped with joy when I came home. She barked and followed me around. She clearly felt better.
A week later, we had the flood. (See previous post.) The noise and calamity freaked her out. Besides that, though, she was slowing down. My mom reported that Lola just slept all day, waiting for me to get home. When I got home, Lola slept by my bed. She was losing her spark. She panted. I could tell she was in increasing pain.
So, on Friday, April 19, we made an appointment. On Monday, April 22, after work, I drove home with heavy heart, knowing that the end was at hand.
Lola greeted me with joy. I second-guessed myself. Maybe she was fine. Maybe another week. But I knew that I couldn’t allow her to suffer any longer. I began to cry. I hated that she didn’t know what was going to happen–she was so happy I was home–but glad she didn’t know. I felt like a traitor, though.
My husband went with me.
In the waiting room, other people remarked–as they always did–at her beauty. She was anxious and panting. They quickly called us to a room and the vet tech took her back to insert an i.v. and start some sedation. They returned her to us and she sat on my feet. She started to calm down somewhat.
The vet came in. There was paperwork to fill out. Instructions. The vet told me she’d give her something more to relax her. They put a comforter on the floor for her to lie on. The vet left to give us more time.
When she came back, Lola was still standing. She would not lie down. The vet said, “Oh, I know you are feeling it. Just lie down.” I knew she wouldn’t leave me, so I crawled onto the floor, onto the comforter.
“Come here,” I said and she came over, of course, and backed herself onto me until she was sitting on my lap, essentially, the way she always liked to do.
I dug my fingers into her thick fur, stroking her while the vet plunged the needle into the i.v. port. She told me it would be very quick and it was. I felt Lola’s body sag as her spirit left. She vet cradled her head and gently laid it down so she could check for a heartbeat.
Lola was gone.
We fled the room even though they told us we could stay as long as we wanted. I hated leaving her there but I knew she wasn’t there anyway.
I still think she’s waiting for me when I get home.
I miss her.